Her blood pounded in her ears as he stared at her. “One of the many gifts you insist on showering me with.”
“Oh, my love, this gift isn’t for you—it’s for me.”
Martha scraped up her courage. “Do you like it?”
He nodded, his expression entranced as he reached out to run his hands over the whisper-thin muslin. “The woman at the shop said these will soon be all the rage.”
These were a pair of drawers that were similar to men’s inexpressibles, but with little frills on the leg openings.
He traced her cleft with one finger, up and down, up and down. The thin fabric barrier somehow made her feel even more exposed. “So pretty,” he murmured.
Martha’s sex tightened as he pressed harder, parting her lips and lightly flicking her core while his other hand stroked up her bare thigh and beneath the fabric.
Martha gave a startled yelp.
“Sorry, sweetness,” he murmured, his gaze moving between her face and what his hands were doing. “Is my hand cold?”
“A little,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Do you want me to stop?” His eyes glinted with wickedness.
“No.”
◆◆◆
Hugo gazed down on his gorgeous wife as she lay before him, a veritable banquet of femininity.
He drank in her parted lips and flushed face, teasing her sweet little pussy through the material until she made a damp spot on her pretty new drawers.
“Spread a bit wider for me, darling.”
As always, she turned the most delightful shade of pink.
But she obeyed him.
“Good girl,” he praised when she opened for him. He loved the pink drawers on her, but they were a nuisance when it came to easily accessing her body.
Still, he was creative; he could adapt.
He grazed her clitoris, making her moan. She was wet for him, her body already trembling with need. His wife; his vicar’s daughter with the soul of a courtesan.
Thank the Lord.
He flicked open his fall with one hand, not pausing his caressing. She spread wider without being told and Hugo slid his hand inside his drawers and drew out his prick.
Martha’s slitted gaze fixed on his plump crown which had thrust back his foreskin and was slick with evidence of his desire.
Hugo pumped himself as he pushed a finger into her tight heat. “Fuck! Martha.”
She clenched at the vulgar word, but he knew she was titillated, rather than offended, like those times he slipped and took the Lord’s name in vain.
“So wet and ready for your husband,” he praised, giving her a lascivious smirk while he stroked them both.
Hugo knew he wouldn’t last long—he never did the first time he took her. And he’d take her again—once in every house she showed him. Martha was not the sort of woman you could have just once.
She was fortunate that old Duncan had buggered off, because Hugo had planned to mount her whether the man was there, or not. He smirked as he imagined Martha’s terror at being caught. But he knew she wouldn’t have denied him.
Every night in their bed she came to him with a hunger as voracious as his own. After the first few weeks—when she’d gotten over her shyness—she had actually approached him. The first time he’d woken to her hand stroking his shaft he’d almost wept at the sheer perfection of her—of his life with her. All the lying and sneaking were worth it if he could have her. And keep her.
Hugo pushed aside one leg of her drawers to expose her to his greedy gaze, mesmerized by the sight of his glistening fingers stroking her tender folds. Christ. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
“Please Hugo,” she begged, squirming.
“As you command,” he said, bringing their bodies closer.
He watched himself enter her; his gaze riveted to where they were joined as he made her feel every inch. “I wish you could see what I’m seeing, Martha.” He filled her completely and held her full, giving her a moment to adjust before withdrawing slowly. “You look so beautiful taking me.” The sight of slick skin on slick skin was almost as exquisite as the feel of her.
“Hugo.” The sound of her moaning his name was more erotic than a gamahuching from any other woman.
“Yes, darling?” he asked, his voice hoarse as he began to work her with deep, deliberate strokes.
“Please, more.”
He smirked and reached down to caress her bud. She groaned, her hips lifting off the bed as she muttered something he couldn’t make out. He quickened his pace, giving her what she wanted.
“Oh—oh—” She gasped, her tight sheath clenching so damned hard it almost hurt.
Her rhythmic contractions shoved him over the edge, and he gave in to his need, driving into her with savage thrusts before hilting himself and then emptying his aching ballocks deep inside her sweet body.
Hugo’s arms turned to water and he collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving. As chilly as the day was, she felt like a furnace beneath him. As his fogged brain cleared, the last few minutes came back to him in a rush. “Was I too rough, love?”
“You were perfect. As always.”
The warmth that flooded him at her words astonished him. Why was it that just a little bit of praise from Martha was more powerful than the effusive flattery of every lover he’d had, combined?
“So were you, darling,” he murmured against the damp skin of her throat. “I hate to be impulsive, Martha, but I don’t think we need look any further; I adore this bedroom. I think this is the house for us.”
She chuckled weakly, her body shaking. “Oh, Hugo.” She slid her slender arms around him and gave him a rib-bruising squeeze. “I love you so very much.”
Hugo opened his mouth to tell her he felt the same—that he’d die for her, that she was the best thing to ever happen to him, that marrying her had been the smartest thing he’d done in his entire life.
But, as always when it came to saying the simple four-letter word, it
